


did you miss me?

by wildandwhirlingwords



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, mormor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-17
Updated: 2014-08-17
Packaged: 2018-02-13 14:03:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,862
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2153382
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wildandwhirlingwords/pseuds/wildandwhirlingwords
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written in response to a Tumblr prompt. Sebastian has spent two years thinking that Jim is dead and without him, Seb is dying too; Jim returns to find his Tiger passed out, half-drunk and desperate on the sofa. Mormor. Warnings: includes frequent use of profanity, including the f-word, and mentions of suicide and alcoholism.</p>
            </blockquote>





	did you miss me?

**PROMPT:**

**Sebastian spent two years believing that Jim was dead, and thinking that he has no reason to try any more, he starts drinking and gives up on himself. When Jim finally comes back, he finds his tiger half drunk on the sofa of their flat. Seb is convinced he's hallucinating and breaks down.**

**WARNINGS:**

**Use of swears plus brief mention of suicidal thought and alcoholism.**

*****

The boxes had been packed and stacked with military precision in the hallway; with the cupboards bare and the wardrobes emptied it had looked to all the world as if he was finally moving out and moving on. But that had been months ago, and he’d barely stirred from the sofa since, leaving the flat only to buy necessities: bread, cigarettes and liquor, stumbling over clothes and crockery as he went.

The television played constantly in the background, tuned to a twenty-four hour news programme, the soft buzz of an unfamiliar voice keeping him from going crazy in his own company. But it was never quite loud enough to drown out his own thoughts entirely. It was never the voice he wanted to hear.

The morning he heard about Sherlock Holmes was the morning he was meant to move. He was having one last drink for old times’ sake - Talisker 1973, the bottle Jim had been saving for a special occasion; the night he had finally killed Holmes was meant to be a celebration.

_Except, you didn’t kill him, did you, Boss?_

For there, on the television screen, as corporeal as Sebastian himself, was Sherlock fucking Holmes, alive and well.

_You just killed yourself._

The television had to be replaced the next day after he had cleaned up the glass and soaked the amber liquid out of the carpet. The heady smell of expensive liquor lingered, even after a heavy dousing of bleach, but what was one more stain on an already ruined carpet? Jim was not around shout and scream at him any more (but, oh, how he wished he was).

Out of habit, he put the news on that afternoon as he tried to scrub it out again (also habit). They were still running the item about Holmes and his miraculous return from the dead. It made his skin crawl, and his heart ache.  Why could Sherlock fucking Holmes survive, but not Jim?

Both of them had lain there, ostensibly dead; skulls broken and bleeding, eyes open but lifeless…if one could fake it, why not the other? Jim had always boasted that he was cleverer that Holmes after all: _“Yes, he’s good, Tiger, but I’m better. Much better…”_   Jim’s exact words rang in his ears, and for the first time in eighteen months, Sebastian smiled.

_Damn you to hell, Jim._

He reached for his phone and dialled the boss’s personal number. It rang and rang and rang, until it reached voicemail.

The smile melted from his face, his fingers grew tense around the device in his hand, that one, final flare of hope fizzling out into desperation. He tossed the phone onto the sofa and watched as it bounced and lay still against the cushions.

He did not dare break it. Jim would call him back.

He paced up and down the living room, hands in his pockets, hands in his hair, hands clenched into fists, pounding at the wall.

Jim would call him back.

His knuckles were bleeding and dusted with plaster, lips wrapped round a cigarette.

Jim would call him back.  He had to call him back.

But no call came. Sebastian waited until the early hours of the morning, and tried again. There were two empty packets of cigarettes beside him, an empty bottle of scotch, and his loaded pistol. The phone rang and rang and rang, until it reached voicemail. This time he left a message: “Fuck you, you fucking bastard. If I ever find out you’re alive, I’ll fucking kill you myself.”

But months passed, and he got no indication of the sort, so the pistol lay in its place on the coffee table, unused (although there were times when he considered picking it up and getting things over with). He drowned such morbid impulses in drink, more drink than ever before. He did not leave the flat for days, even weeks at a time, and when he did, he was loathe to return so he found himself a dark, dingy bar and hid from the sunlight there instead.

*

In the morning (or more precisely, _a_ morning, because he has no concept of time any more) he wakes up on the steps outside. He has no idea how he has managed to stumble that far across London in such a state because, quite frankly, he can’t remember much after leaving the flat, and that could have been days ago.

With his head pounding, he crawls up the last few steps and pulls himself to his feet, shaking hands digging around his pockets for the keys. It takes several attempts to fit the correct key into the lock, but then he is inside, out of the glare and the noise – urgh, the noise – and he can lie on the sofa and forget some more, hand already reaching for the decanter on the coffee table.

The television is still on; it’s been playing the whole time he was gone. He turns down the volume, but that does nothing to ease his headache so he shoots the fucking thing. The shot leaves a ringing sound in his ears so he buries his face under a cushion.

Television broken, he misses the broadcast that everyone else around the country gets in that moment.

_“Did ya miss me? Did ya miss me? Did ya miss me?”_

“Did you miss me?” the voice holds the trace of a smirk as it floats down the hallway. Sebastian presses the pillow more firmly over his ears.

“Go‘way…” he slurs back. There are footsteps; things are kicked aside and floorboards creak before the visitor speaks again.

“My, my, Tiger, you have let yourself go.” There is evident distaste in his tone as he circles the room and comes to a halt in front of the sofa. A hand takes hold of the cushion and tries to prise it away. Sebastian yanks it back with a scowl; the voices in his head aren’t usually so forceful.

The visitor tuts. “Now, now…” he croons, and his voice is like velvet in its indulgence, “This won’t do. _Let go_ , Sebastian.” The command is hissed, the sudden change unnerving, and it sets him on edge. Sebastian sits bolt upright, muscles tense, tendons taut, hands scrabbling for his gun; it’s all too real. It has never been this real before.

“Get out, go away…” he begs, eyes wide, hands covering his ears like a child. “Please…” He raises the gun but instead of levelling the barrel at Jim (no, it’s not Jim, it’s a hallucination, it’s the drink, Jim is dead…) he places it under his own chin. The voices will stop bothering him if-

“Tiger, please,” the voice is gentle again, and he puts his hand over Sebastian’s, “Put the gun down.” The gun drops to the carpet, falling from slack fingers at the ghost’s touch. He feels so solid, so warm, he can almost feel the pulse throbbing through its – _his_ – skin.

“Jim?” he rasps. Jim grins that feline grin that he loves so much.

“Did you miss me?” he asks again. Wrong move. He finds himself pinned up against the opposite wall, Sebastian’s natural strength and speed overpowering any other instinct.

“What do you think, you fucking bastard?” He bangs Jim’s head against the plaster several times, voice rising almost to a scream, “What do you think?”

“Watch the suit, Tiger. Westwood, you know.” The unruffled, unconcerned demeanour of the man in front of him only serves to increase Sebastian’s anger.

“Because that’s what’s important,” he scoffs, “You and your designer suits. You swan in here after two years – two years, Jim – and that’s all you have to say? Well you can’t say I didn’t warn you…I told you, if I ever found out you were alive…”

“So go on,” Jim spreads his arms, still smiling (so he got the message, the bastard). The humour is bright in his dark eyes. Sebastian pauses when he realises that there are purple shadows under them, as dark as bruises next to the pallor of his skin; he realises how thin and fragile he seems compared to his great bulk, much more so than usual. But yet, a promise is a promise; he reaches for the pistol once more and Jim does not try and stop him.

The weight of the gun in his hand is so familiar that it is comforting. He does not raise it, he just holds it, turning it over thoughtfully, tossing it from hand to hand. “First I have a question.”

“Go on…” Jim invites cordially, his tone belonging to a tea-party, not a murder a scene (or, at least, a would-be murder scene).

“Where have you been?” the sniper’s voice is pained and he cannot look Jim in the eye. Jim shrugs.

“Here and there…I’ve been following Sherlock again.” Sebastian’s lip curls; he should have guessed, he always has been second best behind Sherlock Holmes. “He was dismantling my network, I had to rebuild from scratch what was left…but he didn’t find you, did he, Tiger? I kept you safe, although…” he wrinkled his nose, “Not entirely out of the gutter.”

“You could have told me…” Sebastian whispers. “You could have fucking told me!” He is angry again, gun raised. The smile fades from Jim’s face, but he is not afraid; he is never afraid.

“I’m sorry.” Sebastian’s aim wavers.

“What?” he asks, incredulously. Jim passes a weary hand over his face.

“Don’t make me say it again,” he asks, “You know I get bored if I have to repeat myself. Now, come on, we both know that you’re not going to shoot. You would have done it by now if you were. I am sorry…”

And the apology is all Sebastian needs to cast the pistol aside and fall into Jim’s arms. “You bastard. You bloody, bloody bastard...” His voice is thick with tears, but the tone is fond. “Of course I bloody missed you.”

“I missed you too…” Jim admits, awkwardly patting Sebastian’s arm, “I’d be lost without my Tiger.” And he pulls Sebastian up so that he can kiss him.

Two years of hurt and anger, regret and redemption are poured into the kiss, and it is broken too soon.

“Don’t think this means you are forgiven.” Sebastian scowls, but he spoils it by laughing, reaching out to toy with Jim’s hair, to run his hand over the stubble of his jaw, to re-explore the features and contours of a face that he had never been able to forget. Jim curls his hand into Sebastian’s hair and smiles into the taller man’s neck, pressing a soft kiss to the scarred skin.

“What must I do to earn your forgiveness?” Sebastian smiles.

“I’ll let you know.” He murmurs into another kiss.

 


End file.
